🐾 Episode 4: The Watchful Heart

It is a peculiar feeling, dear reader, to be a Great Pyrenees curled like a pale moon hidden by a plume of clouds, ears pressed flat, tail tucked tight, praying with all one’s might to blend into the shadows.

A creature of my stature does not “blend” easily. One might as well ask a snowdrift to vanish in midsummer.

Yet there I crouched, breath caught in my chest like a startled bird, watching the pack of rogue dogs cavort across my garden.

The Jack Russell sprang skyward, waving a page from my journal as if it were a prize ribbon at the fair. The Labrador howled in glee, paws drumming the grass in a rhythm so forceful, it could shake the earth. Even the Basset Hound, usually so lugubrious, let out a mournful, appreciative whistle.

And then — the words.

“‘…to live nobly is to carry the weight of dignity, even when no one watches…’”

They cheered. They cheered.
A Spaniel gave a sharp bark of applause; the Shepherd mix yipped, “Bravo!”

I sank lower behind the planter, my body trembling like a soufflé threatened by a careless slam of the oven door. My spectacles, so proudly polished that morning, were now smudged and crooked, teetering on the end of my snout. My red bow tie, once the symbol of my cultivated grace, now felt tight, constricting, as though my own pride were wrapping itself around my throat.

What was I to do? Emerge? Address them? Command them to leave — or, worse, thank them for their uninvited praise?

No.
Not yet.

A gentleman must choose his moment. He must wait for the precise alignment of courage and opportunity. And so I watched, unseen, a noble statue forced into living stillness.

But then… the wind rose again.

The last, lingering pages of my journal lifted from the grass, caught in the breeze like dandelion seeds. I watched in horror — and fascination — as they soared up, up, over the garden walls, crossing the fields, the hedgerows, the very borders of England itself.

As if the universe had plucked them from my life and cast them upon a grander stage.

I remained frozen, my mind racing in circles, like a dog chasing his own tail inside a glass dome. Where were those pages going? What hands — or paws — might catch them?

What if…
No. No, surely not.

What if they landed before someone who understood their worth? Someone clever, someone driven, someone… looking for me?

A shiver rippled down my back. I straightened slightly, adjusting my spectacles, easing the tight knot of my bow tie with a careful paw, and smoothed down my fur. Without the aid of a proper brush and the adept hand of my personal groomer, I picked out the scattering of folsom and jepsom with my claws.

The pack outside still laughed, still barked, still recited my words with reckless joy. But I, Sir Woofington, tucked safely in my hiding place, felt something shift inside me — the faintest spark, like the first glimmer of dawn on a long, dark night.

Perhaps, dear reader… perhaps this was not the end of my dignity.
Perhaps, just perhaps, it was the beginning of something greater.

But first — I had to find out who was out there.
And whether they were already looking for me.